


Cabinet Fever

by unknownsister



Series: Delicious Snacks [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Trapped In A Closet, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 08:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2342360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/pseuds/unknownsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Um.”</p><p>“What's wrong? Have you found the door?”</p><p>“Of course I've found the door.”</p><p>“Well, why aren't you opening it?”</p><p>“It's stuck.”</p><p>“What do you mean '<i>it's stuck</i>'?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cabinet Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the first in the Snacks series - bite-size fics to be enjoyed at your leisure!
> 
> I made a trope bingo sheet with some of my favorite cliche moments to give myself a warm-up exercise while working on longer fics. These are short little unconnected one-shot love letters to tropes that will be updated sporadically when I need to get myself back into a writing flow. As they are meant to be quick & fun, please don't squint too hard at any vague cases or set-ups cause I honestly haven't thought about these too hard ;) 
> 
> Trope #1: Trapped in a closet

John walks into 221B to find all the furniture pushed to the corners. In the center of the room stands a giant cabinet, taller than the detective pacing in front of it. Worn red paint flakes on the hardwood, a blue genie fading down one side. The doors are open, revealing nothing but a blank space.

Setting his coat aside, John comes to stand beside Sherlock who doesn't bother to greet him.

“What have we got here?”

“Locked door murder.”

John raises an eyebrow and Sherlock flips his fingers impatiently.

“Of a sort. It's a magician's cabinet. Dead assistant during the performance. Quite a show.”

Sherlock sounds far too amused at the scene. John admonishes him with an elbow to the side and starts to walk around the box, running his fingers over the faded imagery.

“How'd they die then? Killer bunny?”

“Very funny, John.”

He hears the amusement despite the sarcasm and smiles to himself.

“Strangulation. But the patterns on the victim suggest that there were _two_ people involved in the murder, when clearly this space can barely hold one, much less three.”

John comes around the far corner of the box and watches Sherlock tapping his fingers on his thigh, slightly closer to the open cabinet. He peeks around the corner. It smells old.

“What was the magic trick?”

“Illusion.”  
  
John rolls his eyes and sighs.

“The _illusion_ was for the assistant to step inside the cabinet with the magician. Another assistant would spin it –”

He gives the box a gentle push and John notices the rotating plate on the bottom. The cabinet turns in a lazy unit, well-oiled and quiet. He places a hand on the side when the doors spin back to their original position and stops it. Sherlock resumes.

“Once the cabinet was spinning, the final result would be for the outside assistant to circle the box twice. On the second rotation of the cabinet, the original assistant would be on the outside and the second assistant on the inside.”

“With the magician? So they would swap places while it was spinning.”

“Yes.”

John smiles, looking at the box a little closer. Sherlock narrows his eyes at the back of his head.

“Why are you smiling?”

John shrugs and runs his hand along the inside frame of a door.

“It's just interesting, isn't it? Magic.”  
  
“It's just tricking gullible people into seeing something they want to see.”

John snorts and turns around, arms crossed.

“Oh come on, Sherlock. You didn't ever want to be a magician? Pulling a rabbit out of a hat? I always wanted to saw Harry in half. You'd probably have liked that one actually.”

Sherlock turns on his heel and resumes pacing to hide his smile.

“The first assistant never made it out of the box alive. When the cabinet was set spinning, the outside assistant made her first rotation, then the second, but she started screaming onstage at her cue. They opened the box to find the magician missing and the first assistant strangled.”

“Did he slip out the back?”

“Possibly. The doors automatically lock when shut. The trick hatch on the back slips up to allow the assistants to swap places quickly. It can be opened from either side.”

John worries at his lip for a moment, contemplating the box.

“How did you get something this large out of police custody?”

Sherlock huffs in derision.

“Replica. Lestrade couldn't give me clearance for the real one.”

“Shame. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would have been delighted to have an authentic murder box to liven up the place.”

“As I was saying. Murder.”

“Yes, right right, murder. What makes this one so interesting? Sounds like the magician did it and took off.”

“Ah!”

Sherlock slips around to stand between John and the entrance of the cabinet, his dressing gown swooping around his knees. He holds up both hands for dramatic effect.

“Two sets of hand prints.”

“Pardon?”

“There were four hands wrapped around her neck. Two from the front and two from behind, totaling _three_ people inside the box at once!”

John slips a few fingers down the front of his throat without thought, pushing them to rub at the back of his neck.

“That seems a bit – well – overkill, doesn't it?”

Sherlock turns back to the dark interior.

“It does. Hence revenge as the highest suspect for motivation.”

Sherlock vibrates with energy in front of John, balancing on the balls of his feet for a few seconds and dropping back, his hands gripped behind him with fingers wriggling.

“What has you stumped?”

The detective steps inside the box, the ceiling of it brushing the tops of his curls. There's not enough space for him to lift his arms to the side or move around much at all.

“There's barely enough room for two people, much less three. All available space is taken up here, no secret walls or compartments that I could find. Look here.”

Sherlock reaches out of the box and grabs at John's wrists, dragging him forward and into the box with him.

“Sherlock –!”

“If there were two people in here, like us, there is barely enough space for us to move or breath, much less commit a murder. There's even less space when you close the doors like –”

A distinct click snaps the doors shut behind them and John snuffles a breath into Sherlock's collarbone.

“John.”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“I might have...”

“Yes. You might have.”

“It's fine. There's a trap door back here for this very purpose.”

He shuffles, sliding his hand along the wall behind him as best he can, seeking the switch to swing the trap door open. His fingers catch on it and push, but no exit reveals itself.

“Um.”

“What's wrong? Have you found the door?”

“Of course I've found the door.”

“Well, why aren't you opening it?”  
  
“It's stuck.”

“What do you mean ' _it's stuck'_?”

“What else would I mean by that?”

“You're just not doing it right. Let me try.”

John drives the breath out of Sherlock by pushing him roughly against the back wall in irritation. He fumbles in the dark for the switch, pressing it to no effect. He tries again just for good measure and then once more to teach it a lesson.

“Fucking fuck, Sherlock.”

“I...”

“You closed the doors! You've proved your point now. Only two people can get in here and be _massively uncomfortable_.”

“Don't shout, John. We're in an enclosed space.”

John tries to lift his head and knocks Sherlock's chin, his teeth clicking painfully.

“This is ridiculous. Call someone to get us out. Where's Mrs. Hudson?”

“At her sister's.”

John doesn't have to speak for his anger to radiate in the small space.

“I just wanted to come home and have a relaxing evening but that is definitely too much to ask for when living with you. Didn't you ever hear curiosity killed the cat, Sherlock?”

“And satisfaction brought him back. Shut up. I can text Lestrade. Give me my mobile.”

“I don't have your phone.”

“Back pocket.”

They're close enough that Sherlock hears John's teeth grinding. He decides against chiding him at the moment.

“Get it yourself.”

“I can't reach it.”

“You haven't even tried.”

“ _Fine_.”

Sherlock can't lift his arms, so he bows his body backward, pushing his arm behind himself. The full length of his torso presses against John's front and he intakes a sharp breath that Sherlock pretends not to hear.

“Stop! Stop.”

John pushes at Sherlock's waist, shoving him away.

“Let me try.”

John's voice sounds strained. Sherlock is suddenly grateful for the lack of light in the box to hide his surprise. John is flustered, trying to collect himself.

He stills and waits for John to move in. Steady hands reach around him and in-between his robe, parting the soft material to grope for the back pocket of his pajamas.

John's fingers hesitate against the hard outline of his mobile. The moment stretches long between them. The phone slips into Sherlock's palm a second later, but the abrupt tension between them escalates into the stratosphere anyway. The two say nothing for a strained minute, but when John tries to remove his hands, his fingers stray to Sherlock's waist and stay there, the warmth of him seeping from his touch through cloth to Sherlock's overheated skin. Blood rushes downwards and his cock begins to fill.

Far be it from Sherlock to voice any objections, suddenly gripped with fierce curiosity. He holds his breath, waiting to see what John does next. When John doesn't move, Sherlock pushes his hips forwards just the slightest bit to find an answering arousal from his flatmate waiting for him.

John digs his fingertips into Sherlock's bony hips, the back of his head smacking the box wall.

"I'm. I'm sorry. It's normal. Proximity. This is perfectly fine. Just ignore me. It."

Sherlock does no such thing. The phone gives the barest blue glow from his palm as he texts one handed. He uses the opportunity to try and see John's face in the dim light - chin upturned, eyes closed. A line of sweat slips down from the corner of his jaw and Sherlock aches to lick it off.

The text zooms off to Lestrade, who would be in the flat as fast as possible. Sherlock makes a decision for the meantime.

John had tried to push his body back as far as he could in the limited space, but Sherlock shifts again, pressing forward the barest inch.

"Sherlock?"

He bends his head forward to John's, resting their foreheads together, both of them drenched in sweat from every hot minute spent in the enclosed space. Sherlock circles his hips and presses his interest into John's hip.

"Sherlock. What are you doing?"

The question hangs weak between them, John already ghosting his fingers to their previous spot on Sherlock's hips. Sherlock leans to the curve of John's ear.

"If it's perfectly natural, then I'm going to take care of it in the most natural way. I'm not going to be in this state when our rescuer arrives."

The final thread of resistance pulls taut in the hesitation of John's grip, the stiffness of his neck beneath Sherlock's tongue when he follows that bead of sweat to the collar of his jumper. John's chest expands with every rapid breath, the oxygen strained and thready between them. It makes Sherlock light-headed a bit, the taste of John, the rush of blood in his ears. Things could change in this tiny box between them forever. Or they could leave this secret in the dark. The thrill of an unknown outcome excites him and frightens him in equal measure. He mouths at John's Adam's apple and waits for him to respond.

The quietest of sighs slips from his flatmate and John breaks the infinitesimally small space between them. He wedges a knee between Sherlock's long, long legs and presses himself into the detective, the molding of their bodies a imperfect union that absolutely works for them both.

Their height difference and the cramped space makes for a less than ideal coupling, but as Sherlock grips at John's forearms and John slips his fingers down the back of Sherlock pajamas, neither of them could care less.

Sherlock pants into John's space, his hips rubbing careless, harsh circles into John's soft belly. The hard press of John's strong thigh gives him a rush of pleasure that shoots down his spine. John groans into his shoulder, cocking his hips in a slow grind against Sherlock's front. It's suddenly not enough as Sherlock wants to _feel_ \- he must touch John. There's barely enough space for him to cram his hands between them, wrenching at John's zipper, gripping the vee of his trousers apart and digging inside. He wants and wants and wants, the need sudden and all consuming. The desire bowls him over, enough so that he can put the choices he's making aside and focus on the length and weight of John's cock in his grip.

John makes the smallest, breathy noises as Sherlock explores, slipping his fingers through the wetness at the tip, sliding curiously along the underside. He's allowed a few seconds of pleasurable questing before John returns the favor, shoving at his pajama bottoms until they're both exposed in the heat of the box, material bunching uncomfortably half-way down Sherlock's thighs. Their mingled scents cling to every molecule of air.

Sherlock's mouth waters as he imagines the shape in his hand, the way it would lie on his tongue, the press of it into the back of his throat. He suddenly hates the box, wants John spread on his bed, free and able to properly fuck his mouth. He channels the frustration into a kiss, the first and unexpected one of their relationship. John's mouth tastes like the stale coffee he drank on the tube. It's gross and perfect and Sherlock explores every inch. He's not sure if this counts into the natural part of their 'problem,' but he takes what John will give him.

John gives as good as he gets, his tongue sliding in slow circuits over Sherlock's bottom lip while he removes his leg from between Sherlock's, positioning them to line up properly. At the first touch of velvet heat against his own erection, Sherlock gives a full body twitch, presses his palms flat to the walls of the box lest he collapse against John.

His blood sings at their combined arousal - John sucking on his tongue as he traces the crease of Sherlock arse, the detective licking the roof of his mouth as he swipes through the sweat pooling at John's lower back. The scratch of John's trousers against his pelvic bones only heightens his arousal, the sense of forbidden, the dark hiding their sudden transgression of normal flatmate relations and binding them as potential lovers. New, exciting territory for Sherlock to discover.

Sherlock burns and burns as they grind together, the slick of their sweat doing more to help the chafing than John trying to spit between them. The friction builds with every gasp of breath they share, Sherlock's heart thundering in his chest as their rhythm becomes more frantic. He pulls John to him as close as possible, a low moan growing steadily weaker as John punctuates his thrusts with his teeth on the underside of Sherlock's jaw.

He nips there, pulling one hand between them to cup at Sherlock's testicles, rolling them between his callused fingers until they tighten unbearable and Sherlock comes, hitching his hips in frantic, tight presses against John's lower stomach until he cannot bear to move anymore.

John groans desperately, lowering his hips and pushing his dick between Sherlock's thighs, against his perineum. He swipes his fingers through the hair at his groin and the skin of his stomach and slides it along his length, aided in his rutting by Sherlock's release.

The detective tightens his thighs just the slightest bit, licking encouragement into the shell of John's ear before John finds release, the thick heat of his come sliding down the inside of Sherlock's legs with exquisite slowness.

They lean together against the door of the cabinet, both supporting the other while they try to catch their breath in the limited air. Sherlock's curls lie limp against the back of his neck, both of them drenched in sweat. John traces lines against the back of Sherlock's thighs, his heart still thundering where Sherlock's nose is pressed against the pulse of his neck.

John stirs.

“Alright?”

Sherlock hums a quiet assent. He smiles a little when John pulls his pajamas back up, tucking him back inside and adjusting his robe for something to do with his hands. He then takes care of himself, wiping his hands off on his trouser legs in a hopeless attempt to get clean.

The silence between them hasn't turned awkward yet, but a different type of tension settles between them. Sherlock is still boneless, pressed against John. He would get closer if he could and tucks his fingertips inside John's front pockets as consolation for not being able to do so.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“We... ah...”

John will work this out. Sherlock lets him do the talking for once, his mind filled with peaceful white noise.

“This was...”

John peters off, his voice fading with his concern. He nudges Sherlock's chin with his own and the detective lifts his head lazily, eyes closed even in darkness. He imagines John, the blue of his eyes, the lines of his life creasing his warm and wonderful face, sated and wrung out with sex. John presses his lips to the space right below Sherlock's mouth, drags up until he's in the proper position and they're sharing a slow, chaste kiss. Sherlock can't wait to do this in the light.

They stay like this, small kisses with little sips of air in-between until they hear footsteps on the stairs.

Lestrade calls out to them before he reaches the box and John slowly disentangles his hands from Sherlock, presses a last kiss to his swollen lips.

There's a cracking noise as Lestrade manages to wedge the door open, breaking some of the hinges with the crowbar he brought. The first thing John sees is Sherlock's face, his eyes still closed, his cheeks flushed high and his mouth a smudge of dark red. He opens his eyes and they _burn_ , the passion hidden in the dark suddenly a real thing between them. John swallows under the intensity of it, but doesn't look away.

Lestrade clears his throat behind them.

“I've cleared the way, lads. You can come out now?”

John backs out of the box first and realizes exactly the state that they're in. Lestrade is pointedly not looking at the white streaks on John's trousers and jumper, the soaked state of Sherlock's pajamas or the bite marks on his jaw.

John rubs his fingers in his hair, belatedly remember where those fingers has just been. He looks up to see Sherlock coming to the same conclusion, a smile in the corner of his mouth threatening to become a full on laughing fit.

The detective turns and glares at Lestrade, his voice very serious.

“That took you long enough.”

Lestrade's jaw works.

“I got here as fast as I could! I do have a bloody important job you know. I came over here myself – I could have sent a rookie to crack you out of your mad box. Have you solved it yet?”

“As a matter of fact...”

Sherlock turns Lestrade toward the kitchen, explaining the solution to the murder. He looks over his shoulder at John, a quick glance down the length of him. John's blood heats all over again at the wicked curl of that mouth, still engaged in conversation with the inspector.

The detective jerks his chin upwards, indicating John's room and the doctor gratefully takes his leave, muttering his excuses. The weight and consequences of what they've just done will hit him later, but as he trots up the stairs, all he can think of is the sweet look of bliss on Sherlock when the light first hit him. The smile won't leave John's face as he reaches his landing and starts forming plans to see that particular look again.


End file.
